


Behind Closed Doors

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: runthecon, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal and Clinton in the surveillance van.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

> For runthecon's PWP round, inspired by elrhiarhodan's prompt, "behind closed doors." Written in 24 hours.

“Trust me,” says Neal, partly because Clinton’s looking around like _Why are we here?_ but mostly because he suddenly needs Clinton to trust him. The thought of it is heady and rife with endless possibility, like talking his way into the Authorized Personnel Only area of a museum in the middle of the day, past security guards and state-of-the-art sensors.

It’s their second date. Neal didn’t realize their first date was a date until halfway through the evening, after Peter, Diana and the other agents drifted off to their respective lives and Neal found himself alone with Jones, staring across the table and idly wondering: whether he was single, whether he swung Neal’s way, what it would be like to kiss a fed. (The answers, he soon discovered, were yes, yes, and really surprisingly hot.)

By halfway through their second date—unquestionably a date; dinner and everything—Neal had stopped defining Jones by his FBI-ness. He was Clinton: wry and perceptive, with a mesmerizing habit of licking his lips when he was considering the answer to a difficult question, and a moral compass that Neal really shouldn’t find sexy but somehow did. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his principles, Clinton promised anything Neal let slip would be strictly off the record. And when Neal hinted at certain past escapades, Clinton seemed more amused than disapproving. 

And then they ended up here, courtesy of Clinton’s swipe card, which Neal swiped (ha!) from him while they were splitting the check. 

Clinton eyes the row of deliberately nondescript surveillance vehicles, and his brow crinkles. “Are we planning a stakeout?”

“You could say that.” Neal smirks. He’s not above a cheesy double entendre. 

“You know, I spend enough time in the van when I’m on the clock.” But it’s a mild protest, and he lets Neal lead him to the utility van in the back, furthest from the security cameras. They’re both a little drunk, but Neal’s pretty sure Clinton knows where this is going.

And then Clinton crowds him against the side of the van, in the shadows by the wall. He rests one forearm on the panel by Neal’s head and leans in to kiss him, sensuous and hot, and Neal’s definite: same page, same endgame. He bites Clinton’s lower lip, testing his reaction, and Clinton smiles against his mouth, slipping free. His free hand wraps around Neal’s hip, the thumb digging in low and intimate in a way that makes Neal a little wild. The plan gains a degree of urgency. He pushes Clinton away and slips sideways. “Come on.”

They climb into the back of the van. Neal shuts the doors after them and flicks on the internal light. Clinton tilts his head, desire displaced by skepticism. “Here, seriously?”

Neal dares him with a grin. “It’ll add a frisson to any future stakeouts, don’t you think?”

“Guess I just assumed you’d go for the luxury option.” Clinton discards his jacket, sits in one of the roller chairs and loosens his tie, watching Neal the whole time. “Should’ve known breaking the rules would take priority.”

“It’s not just about breaking rules.” Neal perches on the edge of the counter across from him. Because it’s the van, there’s barely a foot and a half between them, and the gap is begging to be closed, but he holds off, enjoying the anticipation.

The air is stale and too warm, and they’re surrounded by headphones and other surveillance equipment. Even a couple of abandoned case files. But there’s something about being here with Clinton—something driving Neal on. It’s not just the lure of the forbidden. It’s more like alchemy—heat and recklessness casting a glamour over the most mundane of spaces. Besides, it’ll make a great anecdote, even if only in his own mind.

Clinton’s eyebrows twitch up. “Is it fantasy, then?”

“Mm, something like that.” Neal stretches his legs out, letting his feet rest between Clinton’s. “How about you?”

Clinton licks his lips, thinking, and Neal hooks his foot under the seat of the chair and draws him closer.

“Fantasy or reality, I don’t know,” murmurs Clinton looking up at him with those dark eyes. He undoes some buttons low on Neal’s shirt and slips his fingers inside. “With you, fantasy and reality might actually be the same thing.”

A glow spreads in Neal’s chest—he knows a compliment when he hears one—joining the wine from dinner, the trail of heat from Clinton’s touch, and raw anticipation, until he’s so turned on he can’t take it anymore. He urges Clinton out of the chair, into his arms, and their bodies collide, hot in the cramped space, their mouths meet and fuse, and the way Clinton’s kissing him, surprised and dirty and a little rough, Neal knows they’re both getting off on this, on each other and the transgressiveness of using this bland government workbox—and okay, this is absolutely about breaking the rules, proving he hasn’t been tamed. Why not?

He tugs Clinton’s shirt free of his pants and palms his back, and Clinton first presses forward, then pulls back and manages to divest Neal of his own jacket, shirt and tie without any tearing sounds or buttons going flying. Top agent, Neal thinks vaguely, able to keep his head in a crisis or a haze of lust.

Being shirtless brings a new host of benefits: his skin feels overheated, the fabric of Clinton’s shirt almost rough against his chest. He flushes wherever Clinton puts his hands, which is pretty much everywhere—and he’s hard, so hard he’s having trouble thinking. Any plan he might have had about how this would go is lost in the consuming press of their bodies, the smell of skin and clean sweat and musk. Thankfully, Clinton seems caught just as off-guard—he drags his mouth down Neal’s neck and bites his shoulder a shade too hard, and Neal’s breath catches even as he shrugs away. It’s not what he wants, too close to being marked, to the tracker on his ankle—but for all that, it makes his cock ache. 

Clinton doesn’t question or persist when Neal evades, just smoothly changes tactics. He’s paying attention, maybe even gets it. The give and take is hot and perfect, and something deep inside Neal relaxes, something that’s almost always wary and in control. He trusts Clinton. And god, he wants him.

He nudges his cock forward hard, pointedly, and feels an answering pressure. Their combined breathing scores the air, counterpointed by Neal’s pulse, loud in his ears. “Hey,” he says, “let me—” and he turns and maneuvers so Clinton’s in front of him, both of them facing the counter, and now Neal can rut deliberately against the tight swell of Clinton’s ass. Even better, he can get his hands on him, drag down the smooth skin of his chest under his shirt, scrape fingernails through the light fur on his lower belly, and feel every muscle straining for control. Clinton braces his hands on the wall of the van and pushes back into Neal’s arms, letting him grope him shamelessly, flick his nipples, touch him everywhere, squeeze him through his pants and, when that’s not enough, open his pants and stroke his thick, hard cock, starting slow, teasing them both. 

Clinton’s breathing goes ragged, and Neal’s getting a vicarious buzz from Clinton’s pleasure that amps up his own arousal even further. He has one arm across Clinton’s chest, holding him, but he’s not physically stopping him from fucking his fist—it’s more like another dare. Dare you to let me, to trust me. And Clinton’s taking it, even as it makes him swear. His knuckles go pale as if he’s trying to grip the wall, and Neal relents, speeds up, jacking him off in long, hard strokes, savoring it all while he holds him and feels him quake and come, spattering the bare metal counter.

It takes them both a moment to recover. Neal nuzzles the side of Clinton’s neck, inhales deep, nips his ear, and Clinton twists to meet his mouth, wet and clumsy and honest, hooking his arm awkwardly around Neal’s neck. Neal takes advantage of the angle to rub his cock against Clinton’s hip. He needs more. He needs it now.

Clinton breaks the kiss and takes a second to tuck himself away and fasten his pants, then turns fully in the narrow space. “Hey.”

“Hey,” says Neal, still hard and shirtless, but not feeling a trace of concern or doubt. This is what trust feels like.

“What can I do?” asks Clinton. “Can I blow you?”

Neal grins at Clinton’s manners, but he appreciates his asking. And the offer itself. He has to clear his throat. “Yeah.”

They wind up how they started, with Neal leaning, bare-assed now, on the counter—further along so he’s not sitting in Clinton’s come—and Clinton in the roller chair, leaning forward to give Neal head.

He’s good. Neal recognizes the skill, through the gathering fog of tension and need clouding his senses. It doesn’t take long. Neal arches helplessly when Clinton cups his balls, rolling them in his palm, and it’s the final straw, what tips the balance and turns the fog into a tornado twisting through Neal, wringing him out, making him shout.

Clinton swallows without ceremony, then sits up and pulls Neal down to straddle his lap. 

It’s easy and right, and Neal feels triumphant, his heartrate gradually slowing. He kisses Clinton, and that’s easy too. The taste of himself in Clinton’s mouth gives him a small aftershock jolt of pleasure.

They kiss for a long time, Clinton’s hands still generous and exploratory but no longer urgent. Finally he pulls back and meets Neal’s eye. “What would you say to a nightcap at my place, after we clean up here?”

It’s the next step, a step toward something more conventional, potentially ongoing. Neal doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t have to consider. “Sounds good.”

He can do domestic, even welcomes the prospect. But this was the right place for them to start. Hidden, secret, trespassing. Clinton’s probably told the others about their date tonight, but this will stay between the two of them. And the van, the van will never be the same.

 

END


End file.
